The Open Sky
by Kiisu1L40
Summary: Coffee and pie, conversations and confessions. She's had almost thirteen years to build up her walls, but if ever there was a reason to tear them down it's him.


**_The Open Sky _**

_This story is based on the assumption that the events of "Kill Shot" took place at roughly the same time as the episode aired, meaning a few days before (American) Thanksgiving. _

_I do not own _Castle_. _

* * *

><p>Kate scoops another serving of mashed potatoes out of the aluminum pan and tries to recall if she has ever not volunteered to cover shifts on Thanksgiving Day before.<p>

There was that one year with Will, but that might have been Christmas instead. Or maybe Easter. She can't remember. All she knows is there was an apartment crowded with people and a table covered with food, but she and Will fought and she left before the meal even began and ended up at the precinct reviewing case files until it wasn't a holiday anymore.

After her mother was killed holidays lost all their meaning. They were just another painful reminder that she was gone and never coming back. An empty chair at the table and the ghosts of happier times. That's how Castle had worded it. She remembers how that phrase leapt out at her when she first read _Heat Wave. _It was a good attempt but she doubts if the right words even exist to convey the pain and heartache of that first Thanksgiving ten months after her mother's death.

She had cooked the meal, wiping away tears while she tried to remember all her mother's hints and secrets for making each dish just right but in the end it didn't even matter. They didn't eat it, didn't even set the table. Just let it grow cold on the counter while they retreated to their rooms, seeking the solace of a bottle and the escape of a fictional world.

Even after her father had sobered up they maintained their unspoken, mutual agreement not to observe the holidays. Without her mother there was little worth celebrating.

But this year is different. Too much has happened to let the day go by unheeded.

So instead of working she's spending the day with her father at the soup kitchen he volunteers at, serving up mashed potatoes and reminding herself that making peace and letting go aren't the same as letting down and forgetting.

"Hey Katie," her dad says as he steps up beside her followed by a bald man with a wiry mustache and glasses, "Paul's going to take over potato duty for a bit. Come take a break and eat with me."

She relinquishes the scoop to Paul and pulls her apron off, hanging it on a peg nearby. They gather their plates and she follows her father to the end of an empty table at the side of the room.

"Did you tell Rick you were going to be here today?" he asks as he sets his plate down and slides onto the bench.

She looks up, startled by the name. "Castle? Yeah. He asked if I had Thanksgiving plans and I told him I was coming here. Why?"

"Some of the guys were talking earlier and apparently he stopped by yesterday and made a donation."

She raises an eyebrow at her father. She knows that look, knows that practiced nonchalance.

"Oh yeah?"

"A dozen turkeys and a rather sizable check."

A smile curves her lips as she pops a piece of cornbread in her mouth.

"Yeah, that sounds like Castle," she says. "He can be very generous."

So very, very generous she thinks as she picks up her fork and starts swirling it through her mashed potatoes.

An amazing red dress. Five hundred thousand dollars. A place to stay. About a hundred cups of coffee. Space. Time. Understanding.

He's given her so much but what has she ever given him in return?

"Are you okay, Katie," her father asks after a few minutes of eating in silence. She glances up from the green bean she's been absentmindedly pushing around her plate to look at him. "You just seem kind of tired and … preoccupied."

"I'm fine," she tells him automatically but it's a lie and her hand shakes as she remembers how far from the truth it is. She's better than she was a few days ago but she's not fine, far from it.

She takes a deep breath and sets her fork down beside her plate, taking a moment to make sure it is straight and perpendicular to the edge of the table, buying herself some time.

"This last case was tough," she admits and raises her eyes back to her father's face and although he is looking at her he doesn't meet her eyes. His gaze is lower and she glances down at herself to find her fingers subconsciously tracing a circle around the scar on her sternum.

She quickly drops her hand and shoves it under her leg on the bench, using her weight to keep it in place. Her other hand is a tight fist stuffed in the pocket of her sweater.

"You worked that case with the sniper?" It's a question but not really a question. He's already figured it out, made the connection and though he tries, he can't quite hide his concern.

She swallows thickly, her throat dry and tilts her head in acknowledgment.

For a moment she hates how well he knows her, hates that he knows it is best not to openly show his worry for her, hates that they still conceal so much from each other even after everything they've been through. She doesn't want it to be like that. They're the only family the other has left.

And sitting there looking at her father across the table she is caught off-guard by the sudden, intense need to confess. The words her therapist has had to fight to drag out of her are now welling up inside her, threatening to spill out.

"I have PTSD." The words feel strange on her tongue, heavy and stale, and although she says them quietly, she can tell he heard her over the hum of conversation and movement around them. He goes still for a moment, his eyes filling with sadness and he nods slowly in acceptance, like she's just confirmed something he's expected for a while.

"And during the case … I kind of lost it a couple times."

Her father sighs, suddenly looking years older than his actual age and the expression on his face reminds her why she has always kept so much hidden from him. It was easier for both of them if she didn't give him something to worry about, something else to weigh on his mind, and if her father wasn't worried about her that meant she was fine, she had everything under control.

But that was all just a smokescreen, a disguise. He had always worried about her, _I had nightmares that swallowed you whole, _and she had never truly been fine. She didn't have things under control. They were controlling her, shaping her life, making her into the person she is, the person who is no longer enough.

"You're still seeing the therapist?" her dad asks softly and she nods.

"And is it helping? Talking to him?"

She remembers the way she felt sitting in Dr. Burke's office during their recent session. Calm, still, her mind and body quiet for the first time in days. The doctor had looked at her differently when she left that time, almost proud, finally happy with the progress she was making and her nod is more emphatic this time as she answers her father's question.

"Yeah, yeah it helps."

They're both quiet for a moment, her fingers tug at a loose string inside her pocket and he takes a sip from his cup of apple cider.

When he sets the paper cup back on the table he clears his throat and glances at her.

"I read about it in the paper," he starts tentatively. "It said the… the shooter was taken out… shot by the police…?"

She can hear the question he wants to ask behind the one he is and shakes her head.

"It wasn't me… but I was there."

His relief is evident and she decides he doesn't need to know how there she was, how close she came again.

And there's another thing he doesn't need to know.

She can feel the hot ball of shame burning in her stomach as she recalls the kaleidoscope of images from the other night, distorted but intense. The pain in her forearm is all psychological now but the feeling of humiliation creeping up the back of her neck is all too real. She still can't believe she was so stupid. She knows better.

She can't tell her father that, couldn't bear to see his fear and worry and disappointment. She hadn't been able to bring herself to tell Dr. Burke about it either.

But she needs to tell someone, can't let it turn into a shameful, dirty secret she carries around with her, she just can't tell either of them.

It's still burning inside her though, threatening to spill out, and the only way she can stop it is to say something else, anything else.

"Castle loves me."

She doesn't recall giving her mouth permission to form those words but they're out there now, having slid off her tongue much more easily than she ever thought they could.

The sudden change of topic catches her father by surprise but he recovers quickly, a small smile twisting his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"I know."

She feels like maybe she should be surprised by that but she's not. So she takes a deep breath and finally voices the words she has never said out loud before.

"And I… I love him too."

Her father gives her that soft, knowing smile again, unsurprised by her revelation.

"Katie," he says gently, "I don't think I'm the one you need to be telling this to."

"I know," she sighs, "I just… I can't tell him. Not yet at least. But telling you… it's a start."

* * *

><p>When Castle answers the door on Friday morning he's barefoot in a pair of rumpled jeans and a soft flannel shirt that makes Kate think of snowy winter days holed up in the loft, cozy and cuddled up on the couch together. It's an appealing thought but she has to blink and force it away. Winter is just around the corner, but <em>that<em>?_ That's _still going to take some time.

"Beckett," he says with a delighted smile, pulling the door wide open. "Come on in. You're just in time for breakfast!"

She quirks an eyebrow at him as she steps by. "Breakfast, Castle? It's almost eleven o'clock."

He shrugs and pushes the door closed, grabbing her jacket from her as she slips it down her arms and tosses it over the railing of the stairs as he leads her to the kitchen.

"It's the day after Thanksgiving. I slept in."

He catches the look on her face and shrugs again.

"Yesterday was a day of thanks. Today is a day to recover from how thankful we were yesterday."

His hand pats his stomach and he puffs out his cheeks like a chipmunk and she can't help the chuckle that escapes her.

"And Martha and Alexis?" she asks, noting the silence in the loft.

"Ah, for them today is a day of shopping. Well, at least it is for my mother. Alexis goes mostly to observe the craziness of others and to act as the voice of reason for her grandmother."

He turns and grabs two mugs from the cabinet and pours coffee from the steaming pot on the counter, adding the perfect amounts of cream and sugar to each. He makes sure she gets the Richard Castle Fan Club one and keeps the plain blue mug for himself.

She rolls her eyes but takes a cautious sip without commenting. It's a bit too hot but it's delicious and she cradles the warm ceramic in her hands letting it chase away the lingering chill of the late November morning.

"Did you have a good day yesterday?" Castle asks, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter beside her.

Kate turns, mirroring his position, and takes another small sip of coffee before answering.

"Yeah, it was good, nice."

She nudges his shin with the toe of her boot. "My dad wanted me to thank you, by the way."

He gives her a blank look, his brow furrowing as he studies the small smile that twists her lips.

"What for?"

Her eyes are laughing at him now, sparkling in the crisp, clear sunlight shining in through the windows.

"For the donation you made."

"Oh," he utters, frozen for a moment, caught. "I didn't know he, or you, would find out about that."

She snorts lightly. "I don't want to inflate your ego any more than it already is, but people know who you are. They recognize you and when you drop off a dozen turkeys and write them a check with lots of zeros, they're going to talk about it."

She's expecting some cocky comment or a joke about the mug she's using but he doesn't say anything, just shuffles his feet and won't meet her eye.

"What gives, Castle?" she asks, poking her toe at his shin again with a little more force behind it this time. "You did a good thing, helped a lot of people who need it. Why are you embarrassed?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not embarrassed. It's just, I know this was the first Thanksgiving you've spent with your father in a while and I didn't want you to think that I was overstepping or intruding where I don't belong."

Seriously? When has this man ever worried about overstepping or intruding?

"It's fine, Castle. It was… very generous of you and everyone really appreciated it."

He releases the breath he's been holding and nods, looking up at her in relief. He opens his mouth but whatever he is about to say is cut off by the buzzing timer on the stove.

He springs up excitedly from his position at the counter. "Ooh, its ready!" he says, his grin widening further at the quizzical expression on her face.

He crosses the kitchen to the oven and flips a switch on top to turn it off before grabbing a potholder and pulling the door open. She can feel the warmth released across the room and breathes in the enticing aroma of spice and autumn mixing with coffee in the air.

Kate watches as he pulls a round dish out and sets it on a burner on the stove before stepping aside and flourishing the potholder at it. "Pumpkin pie. The breakfast of champions."

She presses her lips together to keep her amused smile at bay and lifts an eyebrow at him.

"Pie for breakfast?"

"It's a Day-After-Thanksgiving tradition," he says over his shoulder as he moves about pulling out a knife, plates and forks.

"No thanks, Castle. I'm fine," she tells him but he ignores her polite refusal and continues serving up a large slice on each of the two plates.

"You have to have some," he insists and joins her again at the counter, setting a plate in front of her next to her half empty coffee mug. "I don't want to brag but I happen to make the world's best pumpkin pie."

She has to admit it looks pretty good and smells amazing and she can't resist the look on his face silently pleading and egging her on. She sighs in resignation, picks up the fork and cuts a triangular piece from the tip of the slice.

He watches the bite disappear between her lips, his eyes full of excited anticipation. "Come on, tell me that is not the best pumpkin pie you have ever tasted."

She savors the bite, chewing slowly, leaving him on edge and making him wait. "It's good," she finally admits, "but it's not the best I've ever had."

He looks crestfallen, like a little boy who's just been told he can't keep the puppy he found and already named, and she feels a little guilty for doing that to him.

"My mom used to make the best pumpkin pies," she says softly, an explanation and an apology, and he goes still.

"Kate…" he starts in dismay but she shakes her head, waving him off.

"It was her favorite. She made everything from scratch and she made so many that she didn't have to use a recipe. Didn't even measure ingredients. It was like she just knew instinctively how much to put in and it was perfect every time."

She pauses and gathers another bite on her fork, looking up at him through the curtain of her lashes and giving him a small smile.

"Hers were the best but this is definitely the second best."

He grins at that, finally picking up his fork and starting in on his own piece, thinking that that was probably the best consolation prize he's ever been given.

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they eat and despite her earlier reluctance she doesn't say anything when he adds another half slice of pie to her plate, just gives him a warm smile over the rim of her coffee mug.

When his plate is empty he casts a longing glance at the remaining wedge of pie on the stove but resists and sets down his fork with a satisfied sigh. As always his eyes go to her, a different kind of longing shining in their depths.

He watches the way her hair tumbles over her shoulders as she tilts her head back to get the last remaining sip of coffee and when she puts the empty mug down on the counter and turns her attention to him his gaze is intrigued and inquisitive.

"Was there a reason you came over here," he asks, "or did your spidey-senses tell you that I had a fresh pot brewing?"

Her eyes dart to the empty mug then back to him, a slightly sheepish look taking over her face.

"One hundred and one?"

The corner of his mouth lifts into a soft smile and his eyes shine as he nods in acceptance but his question brings her back to the real reason she stopped by this morning and her heart starts racing.

The atmosphere in the room changes and he must be able to feel it too because his easy smile slips away and the sparkle in his eyes disappears. There's concern there now and a hint of trepidation.

She has to turn away, take a deep breath. She plants her hands on the counter, the surface cool beneath her suddenly sweaty palms, and closes her eyes, letting the darkness wash over her. She has to tell someone, has to get it out, and she chose him, her partner.

"There's something I need to tell you."

"Is this about how you hurt your arm?"

She swivels her head to look at him, stunned. She thought she had kept it covered, hidden, didn't think anyone had noticed.

She nods slowly and looks back down at her hands on the countertop, concentrating on the long, thin valleys between her fingers and takes another deep breath to try and steady her heart and her mind.

"The other night, after we found that place Travis used to shoot Sara Vasquez… I had this bottle…"

Once she starts the words come pouring out, their flow interrupted by sharp, shallow breaths as she fights to keep from breaking down.

"I drank… I had too much and it was stupid, God I was so stupid, but I just felt so out of control and I hated it, hated feeling like that. I just wanted something to take the edge off, something to make me feel like me again but it… it just made it worse and I… I thought someone was shooting at me."

Her throat closes up and she chokes out the words, her eyes stinging with tears. "I remembered the funeral and… I don't know what happened…I was ducking… and the table… there was glass on the floor and…I …"

His hand, warm and strong at her back, silences her and the warmth of his touch spreads, calming her and making it easier to breathe. Her fingers swipe at the few tears that managed to escape and she concentrates on breathing deeply and the way the pressure of his hand increases each time her lungs fill.

They stay still and quiet for a long moment before he softly says, "You could have called me."

She shakes her head, her hair falling down and curtaining her face and she lifts a hand to brush it back as she turns to look at him again. Her movement causes his hand to fall away and she immediately misses the warmth and reassurance of his touch.

"Actually, I… I don't know if I could have…" she admits in a small voice and the look that crosses his face tells her he understands what she means. She had no control, lost in the tumult of flashbacks and the all too real terror of a perceived threat.

She leans back against the counter again and crosses her arms over her chest as if she's adding another layer of protection to the scars that still feel raw around her troubled, battered heart.

"I didn't want to tell anyone. I didn't want to admit that I wasn't okay, that I was so damaged I did something so foolish and reckless when _I know_ better and… I didn't want you to think…"

He interrupts her, his voice quiet and insistent beside her. "I wouldn't have thought any less of you, Kate, just like I don't think any less of you now. Nothing's going to change the way I feel about you."

She turns quickly to look at him, her eyes wide and her mind racing. _Nothing's going to change the way I feel about you. _She realizes she said she remembered the funeral. Did he think she was telling him that she remembers what he said as he knelt above her in the grass? In her need to confess she had forgotten that there was another secret she was carrying around with her, one she's not ready to share with him.

It looks like his mind is racing too but he doesn't look angry or surprised. He looks like he's trying to think of the best damage control, a way to backpedal and explain.

"I mean… what I meant is ever since we met, since I first got to know you, I've thought you were extraordinary and you've shown me time and time again just how extraordinary you are and nothing is going to make me think differently. You made a mistake, that's all."

His words have always had a way of getting to her, reaching beyond the walls she's built around her heart, and hearing him call her extraordinary again sends a swell of warmth through her. But that's not what she needs right now. She doesn't need kind words and accolades and leniency.

"No, Castle, I need you to think less of me. I need you to think of me differently. I need someone I can be accountable to. Someone who knows that I know better and who I know I'll be letting down if it happens again."

She hates the way she sounds, hates that she has to ask this of him, but it's important. It's part of being more, of letting him in, giving back.

He doesn't say anything for a moment but finally he sighs and nods. "I don't think it's going to happen again," he says, "but if it does I will be here for whatever you need from me. I've got your back."

It's not exactly what she was asking him for but it will do.

She looks at him for a moment then slowly nods. "Thank you."

He doesn't say anything but she can see it all over his face, in the soft curve of his mouth and the light in his eyes. _Always. _

She gives him a soft smile before glancing away. Her teeth lightly grasp her lip and she rubs the pad of her thumb along the edge of the counter letting the comfort of the quiet, sunny loft surround her. She feels lighter and… hopeful. Hopeful that she will be able to let go and make peace, be the person she wants to be and have the relationship she wants to have with her partner.

"I'm trying to be better," she says and when she looks at him his head is cocked to the side, his brow creased, regarding her with an expression of confusion and curiosity.

Her eyes roam the kitchen, searching as if she expects to find the words she needs to explain herself hidden behind the coffeemaker or among the colorful bottles atop the cabinets.

"I told Officer Hastings not to be so driven by the past that you throw away your future and I think it's time that I start listening to my own advice."

She's suddenly aware of how close they are standing, the few inches keeping them from touching, and she has to move, has to put more distance between them. She gathers the empty plates and mugs and crosses the open space of the kitchen to set them in the sink. When she turns around he's watching her quietly, his eyes clear and intensely blue.

"My mom's death has driven me to be who I am but it's also holding me back from… things that I want. I don't know if I'm ever going to find out who is behind everything and I don't know if I'll ever be able to make peace with not knowing, but I can't keep putting my life on hold waiting for something that may never happen."

For a brief second something she can't identify flickers across his face but then it's gone and she can see the sparkle deep in his eyes that lights up his entire face even as he fights to keep his broad, hopeful smile at bay.

He knows her, knows what she's trying to tell him even in her roundabout way, and for a moment she lets his optimism buoy her before reality sinks back in and doubt grabs hold, pulling her down.

"It's been almost thirteen years, Castle," she whispers and her throat feels tight with emotion. "Thirteen years that I've been like this, building and fortifying that wall and… I don't know how easy it will be to change and tear it down, even though that's what I want."

His smile fades but there's still a tenderness in his eyes.

"Change takes time," he tells her gently, "but wanting to change is half the battle. You take it one day at a time and you deal with that wall one brick, rock, cinder block or log at a time until it's not there anymore."

"But what if it takes too long?" she asks, quietly voicing her anxiety.

He shakes his head. "That's not possible. There's no such thing as too long, not when it comes to this. You need to be ready and when you are… everything you want… it'll be there waiting for you."

She has to bite her lip and blink back the tears gathering in her eyes.

He loves her and he's going to wait for her.

It's overwhelming, but in the best possible way, and although it scares her, she knows it would be worse if she thought he wouldn't wait.

She's wondered sometimes if she really even deserves him, if she's worthy of all his patience and kindness and love, but he has a way of looking at her that makes her feel like she is. And the way he looks at her, the way he's looking at her right now, like she could be his entire world, makes her want to believe she is worthy of him all the time. It makes her want to be more, be the person she knows he deserves.

That smile he kept at bay earlier? That's going to be her motivation. A day when she can talk to him about these things without having to step away, a day when she can tell him what's in her heart instead of around it and a day when he won't have to fight that smile.

Someday, in the hopefully not too distant future, when she's found a way to make peace with the past, she'll be able to say those words to him.

A day.

Not now, but someday.

* * *

><p><em>I started writing this Thanksgiving evening intending it to be a short little bit about Caskett sharing leftover pumpkin pie but it somehow morphed into what it is now which is why I'm posting a Thanksgiving story a week and a half after Thanksgiving. Sorry.<em>

_I haven't written much in this tense so thoughts and feedback would be appreciated! _

_I should also mention that the title comes from Florence + The Machine's song "Landscape". _

_Thanks for reading! _


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